COPPER SUN Also by Sharon M. Draper Tears of a Tiger Forged by Fire Darkness Before Dawn Romiette and Julio Double Dutch The Battle of Jericho November Blues This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. SIMON PULSE An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com Copyright © 2006 by Sharon M. Draper All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Also available in an Atheneum Books for Young Readers hardcover edition. Designed by Sonia Chaghatzbanian The text of this book was set in Life. First Simon Pulse edition January 2008 The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows: Draper, Sharon M. (Sharon Mills) Copper sun / Sharon M. Draper.—1st ed. p. cm. Summary: Two fifteen-year-old girls—one a slave and the other an indentured servant—escape their Carolina plantation and try to make their way to Fort Mose, Florida, a Spanish colony that gives sanctuary to slaves. ISBN-13: 978-0-689-82181-3 (hc) ISBN-10: 0-689-82181-6 (hc) [1. Slavery—Fiction. 2. Indentured servants—Fiction. 3. South Carolina—History—Colonial period, ca. 1600–1775—Fiction. 4. Florida—History—Spanish colony, 1565–1763—Fiction. 5. African Americans—History—18th century—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.D78325Cop 2006 [Fic]—dc22 2005005540 ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-5348-7 (pbk) ISBN-10: 1-4169-5348-5 (pbk) ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-1511-4 (ebook) CONTENTS Author’s Note Part One: Amari Chapter 1: Amari and Besa Chapter 2: Strangers and Death Chapter 3: Sorrow and Shackles Chapter 4: Death March to Cape Coast Chapter 5: The Door of No Return Chapter 6: From Sand To Ship Chapter 7: Ship of Death Chapter 8: Toward The Edge of The World Chapter 9: Lessons—Painful and Otherwise Chapter 10: The Middle Passage Chapter 11: Land Ho Chapter 12: Welcome to Sullivan’s Island Chapter 13: The Slave Auction Part Two: Polly Chapter 14: The Slave Sale Chapter 15: Polly and Clay Chapter 16: Teenie and Tidbit Part Three: Amari Chapter 17: Amari and Adjustments Chapter 18: Roots and Dirt Chapter 19: Peaches and Memories Chapter 20: Isabelle Derby Part Four: Polly Chapter 21: Rice and Snakes Chapter 22: Lashed With a Whip Part Five: Amari Chapter 23: Flery Pain and Healinc Hands Chapter 24: Gator Bait Part Six: Polly Chapter 25: Birth of The Baby Chapter 26: Facing Mr. Derby Chapter 27: Death in the Dust Chapter 28: Punishment Chapter 29: Locked in the Smokehouse Chapter 30: Tidbit’s Farewell Part Seven: Amari Chapter 31: The Doctor’s Choice Chapter 32: The Journey Begins Chapter 33: Deep in the Forest Chapter 34: Lost Hush Puppy Chapter 35: Dirt and Clay Part Eight: Polly Chapter 36: Should We Trust Him? Part Nine: Amari Chapter 37: Lost and Found and Lost Part Ten: Polly Chapter 38: The Spanish Soldier Part Eleven: Amari Chapter 39: Crossing The River Chapter 40: Time To Meet The Future Chapter 41: Fort Mose Chapter 42: Copper Sun Afterword A Reading Group AUTHOR’S NOTE I am the granddaughter of a slave. My grandfather—not my great-great-grandfather or some long-distant relative—was born a slave in the year 1860 on a farm in North Carolina. He did not become free until the end of the Civil War, when he was five years old. Hugh Mills lived a very long life, married four times, and fathered twenty-one children. The last child to be born was my father. Hugh was sixty-four years old when my father was born in 1924. I dedicate this book to him, and to my grandmother Estelle, who, even though she was not allowed to finish school, kept a written journal of her life. It is one of my greatest treasures. One day I hope to write her story. I also dedicate this to all those who came before me—the untold multitudes who were taken as slaves and brought to this country, the millions who died during that process, as well as those who lived, suffered, and endured. Amari carries their spirit. She carries mine as well. HERITAGE BY COUNTEE CULLEN What is Africa to me: Copper sun or scarlet sea, Jungle star or jungle track, Strong bronzed men, or regal black Women from whose loins I sprang When the birds of Eden sang? One three centuries removed From the scenes his fathers loved, Spicy grove, cinnamon tree, What is Africa to me? COPPER SUN IN SPITE OF THE HEAT, AMARI TREMBLED.The buyers of slaves had arrived. She and the other women were stripped naked. Amari bit her lip, determined not to cry. But she couldn’t stop herself from screaming out as her arms were wrenched behind her back and tied. A searing pain shot up through her shoulders. A white man clamped shackles on her ankles, rubbing his hands up her legs as he did. Amari tensed and tried to jerk away, but the chains were too tight. She could not hold back the tears. It was the summer of her fifteenth year, and this day she wanted to die. Amari shuffled in the dirt as she was led into the yard and up onto a raised wooden table, which she realized gave the people in the yard a perfect view of the women who were to be sold. She looked at the faces in the sea of pink-skinned people who stood around pointing at the captives and jabbering in their language as each of the slaves was described. She looked for pity or even understanding but found nothing except cool stares. They looked at her as if she were a cow for sale. She saw a few white women fanning themselves and whispering in the ears of welldressed men—their husbands, she supposed. Most of the people in the crowd were men; however, she did see a poorly dressed white girl about her own age standing near a wagon. The girl had a sullen look on her face, and she seemed to be the only person not interested in what was going on at the slave sale. Amari looked up at a seabird flying above and remembered her little brother. I wish he could have flown that night, Amari thought sadly. I wish I could have flown away as well. PART ONE AMARI 1. AMARI AND BESA “WHAT ARE YOU DOING UP THERE, KWASI?” Amari asked her eight-year-old brother with a laugh. He had his legs wrapped around the trunk of the top of a coconut tree. “For once I want to look a giraffe in the eye!” he shouted. “I wish to ask her what she has seen in her travels.” “What kind of warrior speaks to giraffes?” Amari teased. She loved listening to her brother’s tales— everything was an adventure to him. “A wise one,” he replied mysteriously, “one who can see who is coming down the path to our village.” “Well, you look like a little monkey. Since you’re up there, grab a coconut for Mother, but come down before you hurt yourself.” Kwasi scrambled down and tossed the coconut at his sister. “You should thank me, Amari, for my treetop adventure!” He grinned mischievously. “Why?” she asked. “I saw Besa walking through the forest, heading this way! I have seen how you tremble like a dove when he is near.” “You are the one who will be trembling if you do not get that coconut to Mother right away! And take her a few papayas and a pineapple as well. It will please her, and we shall have a delicious treat tonight.” Amari could still smell the sweetness of the pineapple her mother had cut from its rough skin and sliced for the breakfast meal that morning. Kwasi snatched back the coconut and ran off then, laughing and making kissing noises as he chanted, “Besa my love, Besa my love, Besa my love!” Amari pretended to chase him, but as soon as he was out of sight, she reached down into the small stream that flowed near Kwasi’s tree and splashed water on her face. Her village, Ziavi, lay just beyond the red dirt path down which Kwasi had disappeared. She headed there, walking leisurely, with just the slightest awareness of a certain new roundness to her hips and smoothness to her gait as she waited for Besa to catch up with her. Amari loved the rusty brown dirt of Ziavi. The path, hard-packed from thousands of bare feet that had trod on it for decades, was flanked on both sides by fat, fruit-laden mango trees, the sweet smell of which always seemed to welcome her home. Ahead she could see the thatched roofs of the homes of her people, smoky cooking fires, and a chicken or two, scratching in the dirt. She chuckled as she watched Tirza, a young woman about her own age, chasing one of her family’s goats once again. That goat hated to be milked and always found a way to run off right at milking time. Tirza’s mother had threatened several times to make stew of the hardheaded animal.